Tea With Orange
by Nat K. Watson
Summary: Co-authorship is the most extreme entertainment a composer may have. Especially if one works with a friend.


"No, I just can't do it this way! I-just-can't! I can't!"

Silence was the answer to the exclamation; silence had followed the previous exclamations and those before the previous ones.

"I can't go on with this nonsense. Everything after the fifth bar is to be rewritten!" – With a short dry sound the paper sheet was torn out from the music copybook, crumpled heartlessly and thrown over the shoulder.

Silence. Oh, my! Murray got bored with addressing himself. With arms folded across his chest he turned around in the office chair and saw a lovely scene. There was a sofa near the far wall – a short, narrow, uncomfortable sofa, on which even sitting normally was difficult. And now Ben was lying there with comfort. Wearing the old headphones which hadn't been connected to the sound desk for a while, he was busy with a pencil and some paper and paid no attention to anything else. Nobody would recognize a famous conductor-workaholic in this wonderful scene. It looked more like lazy evening crossword solving.

"Well, perhaps I seem even less famous", - Murray added mentally remembering his stubble look. He stood up and went to the far wall, noticing at least three crumpled paper sheets that were torn out during the previous hour and hit his co-author.

A loud theatrical cough. The only answer from the sofa was pencil scraping sound over the notes.

"No pangs of conscience, - Murray commented shaking his head, - Ben!"

No attention. The second cough was louder but also gave no effect. Nearly jumping about with displeasure and resentment, the apartment owner went closer to the sofa. He waved his arms in order to get his younger colleague's attention.

"Foster, Foster, this is Gold, request talking, over!"

"Eh? – Ben startled and put off one headphone, looking at his friend. - Is something wrong?"

Murray exhaled loudly.

"You're lying here and I'm in throes of creation! Feel nervous, actually!"

"You always feel nervous, - Ben shrugged calmly, - if I pay attention to it every time, I won't have a chance to deal with my work".

With these words the young man put on the headphone again and went back to the unfinished staff. Murray stepped back and eyed his co-author in bewilderment. Philosophical mindset, damn it… Neither support, nor sympathy!

"Shame on you", - he mumbled and turned to the piano left. Immediately one of his crumpled music sheets hit the composer's head.

"Go back to work. I want to put our pieces together and see what we'll get".

"Yes, Fairy Godmother, thanks for sending!"

The sofa kept silent. Ben was deep in his composition again and wanted him to do the same. Murray folded his arms across the chest emphatically and went around his piano twice, watching either the unfinished theme, or Foster. Co-authorship is the most extreme entertainment a composer may have. Especially if one works with a friend. And especially if one's inspiration is like sinking keys, either producing sound, or not.

The man took his music copybook and sighed looking at the studio mess. Lots of cups with coffee remains, some beer bottles, the synthesizer next to the sofa, though it was always supposed to stay near the piano. His favorite red cap on the sound desk. A cushion for some reason next to the microphone stand - Ben winded his striped scarf around it, the one he got from fans. Old "Doctor Who" magazines here and there. And scores. Scores, scores, scores. Handwritten and printed ones, wrinkled yellow and freshly white music sheets lying everywhere – on the awards shelves, on the sound desk, on instruments. On the floor. Under the sofa and even in Murray's favorite hiding-place – in the piano bottom part. Apotheosis to all of this – a big photo of Steven Moffat on the ceiling used for work motivation. The boss picture was added by the inscription: "Evil never sleeps. So you shall not". First time Ben had seen that loveliness he had started crossing himself. In five minutes, when his shock had been over, he had asked Murray carefully what this lasciviousness had been for:

"Won't daleks there be better, for example?"

Seeing his friend's big a-la Bambi eyes Gold grinned mysteriously:

"You've got an old system of values, mate, really old school one. Daleks can't motivate like this".

Ben stretched out his long neck and eyed the ceiling again.

"Tastes differ, of course, but this thing motivates me never to come here again".

However, in some days he changed his mind and got comfortable in Murray's home studio, not dashing from the photo of the showrunner…

"…Well, is it so bad?"

Back from his memories, the composer looked at the sofa and was met with a half-smile. Ben felt hot in the headphones and continued his work without them.

"It's not, actually. Good in some way", - the music theme became longer, things began to move. Apparently a proper dose of relaxed thoughts was needed in order to bring the professional mood back. Murray got distracted and found a note placed on the wrong line. He also found out the lead in his mechanical pencil became too short. Swearing in French, the man went to take new leads from his table.

"Phew! It sounded rude, - Ben commented, skilled in foreign swearing due to some years of their partnership, - I never allow myself such things, by the way".

"Piss off", - Murray scolded, taking the leads from under lots of papers and discs.

"What will your fans think…"

"They will be happy 'cause they don't know all of our work nuances. And don't forget I'm not complaining about you!"

"For I don't swear".

"But the stink of your cologne settled down here properly, - Murray nodded at the opened window, busy with leads, - and I was so naïve thinking the most terrible of them are in New York only".

The cologne story was new, sad and didactic. Since Foster got a new perfume from his wife, smell-sensitive Murray had to open the studio window every time they made creative sittings together. During any season. Ben liked the scent, but the unlucky apartment owner wasn't able to make adequate music with it. Honestly, that was something like a smell of Slitheen baked in clove oil. And though his younger colleague convinced him he didn't use "that thing" before working process anymore, Murray's nose had no rest.

Still swearing and squinting, the composer tried to deal with a diabolic task – placing a new lead inside the pencil. The lead didn't want to cooperate, already broken on its end, which caused even more swearing.

"Give it to me, - Ben stood up and walked to his friend slowly, taking the pencil, - trouble of mine, when will you start using normal wooden ones?"

"No, thanks, they need to be sharpened", - Murray refused, watching skilled conductor's fingers make the lead working.

"Vuala!"

"That's real Foster", - the ironic thought came. Constant making fun and the ability to help, when it's needed. Even with little things. And patience, of course. The composer hemmed, taking his reanimated pencil prepared for working. Musicians say after angelic patience another one goes – patience of a professional conductor. It seemed the highest degree of difficulty. Murray, who became a composer by the will of destiny, wasn't sure he'd become a good conductor. Good in terms of patience. And Ben succeeded with it.

"Here we have only three rules, dear colleague, - Foster had said seriously some years ago, when they just had met, - don't stumble on the podium, don't hit members of the orchestra with music stands and don't break batons".

Seeing Murray's confused face the young man had added quickly:

"Oh well, it depends on luck with podium".

And then they both had laughed, happy with a good beginning and light mood. Ben had actually broken his baton, accidentally – that time he'd had a wooden one. And he'd been extremely upset about it. What was that wood…?

"…Suppose it's time to have a break, - Foster gave a whistle and snapped his fingers in front of Murray's nose, - emerge from the Time Vortex, mate, and let's go make another coffee".

"You make it, - the apartment owner refused, sitting down at the piano, - I've got to finish this part before I lost all my ideas".

"Well, well", - Ben giggled, stepping back and still eyeing his friend closely. Murray pretended the muse finally stunned and enlaced him with her attention. He made sacredly-serious face, erased the last note accurately and placed a new one on the right line.

Ben didn't move.

Scratching his shining head and still playing all gifted genius, Murray chewed his quill and spitted immediately. Damn it, what quill?! There were teeth marks on the eraser.

Foster burst out laughing.

"Go make coffee! – Gold snarled and realized he was also laughing. - Get away, Ben, you behave like my grandma! When I was a child she used to stand like this while I was tormenting her piano!"

"I can understand her, - the conductor said catching his breath, - she couldn't make out the instrument's fault".

Murray grimaced fiercely and stood up a little.

"Okay-okay, I'm going to the stove!"

Jumping and hopping, the BBC treasure moved to the door and turned around there:

"Don't even try to pry into my copybook! If I hear my chords – you'll shave every morning the whole month!"

Murray pouted in annoyance. He actually planned a short reconnaissance in Ben's composition in order to see what and how should be made in his own piece. But shaving was a serious threat. Stubble makes him look manful and mysterious, right? He can't get rid of it. Touching his chin thoughtfully, the man went to the sound desk and took his favorite red cap.

"You're everything I have", - he said sadly and put it on. Dishes, water and other domestic sounds were heard from the kitchen.

"Where's sugar?"

"Top shelf, in ceramic TARDIS", - the composer answered loudly eyeing his reflection in the iphone surface. He definitely needs his stubble! So he's got to avoid prying.

"And where's new tea?"

Stopping his narcissism attack, Murray turned to the door.

"Why do you need tea?" – he asked as loud as before

"I want to drink it!"

Putting the iphone on the table, the apartment owner returned to the instrument, warming-up his fingers. He had to keep on working.

"Tea is in two buses, next to the cereal box. Choose any".

Looking at the teeth marks on the pencil, Murray went on with his unfinished composition and prayed to all the ancient gods he remembered from history to give him some fresh ideas and stable inspiration. Ben was still busy in the kitchen. He always used tea instead of coffee when it was a moment of especially strong creative impulse, almost going to a new level. And he always devastated his friend's sugar-bowl, taking about four teaspoons at a time.

Feeling that gods, spirits, magicians and others heard his prayer the man continued writing. He had remarkable development and could foresee good results…

"Where are the lemons?"

That moment frightened birds-like notes flew away, leaving his head empty. Murray swore again – this time in English and mentally. Standing next to the door, with a checkered apron over his black jeans, Ben looked confused.

"I ate them, two days ago", - Gold muttered, trying to remember the last chord he thought about.

"All of them?"

"I had to get inspired for a sad theme", - the composer said matter-of-factly. Damn it, where did he stop?

Ben, whose big eyes in moments of shock seemed truly large, hiccupped anxiously.

"Murray, there were five lemons…"

"Well, that was a VERY sad theme, - Gold made a helpless gesture, - come up with something! Make tea with orange!"

Remembering his friend preferred lemons and never considered any other options, Murray took risks. His thoughts were all about his music piece. Ben went back to the kitchen, snorting resentfully, reminding him of classic English locomotives.

"If you come up with it – don't put much sugar in your tea, - Murray warned him loudly, - for your information, oranges are sweet".

"I got it!"

"Don't want you to vomit on the scores".

"I GOT IT!"

Giggling cunningly, Murray went back to his work and got a short peaceful time. Of course, the red cap couldn't silence all the noises as good as the headphones Foster seized… But at least it made him a little more mysterious. And sometimes it was even inspiring.

There was a funny episode about that cap. Once Murray prepared a first video for his You-tube channel and the next evening he showed it to Ben, who was sitting in his studio. Leaving the sound desk, the young man watched the video thoughtfully and then said:

"I think you should have given your channel a different name. Not "TerrifiedDuck", but "TerrifiedWoodpecker", for example".

"Why? – Murray asked. - What's wrong with a duck? And where's a woodpecker from?"

Ben tapped on his colleague's shoulder sympathetically.

"Gold, sometimes you should have attended biology, not just history. Woodpeckers have red heads. You know, this cap of yours reminds me…"

The rest of the phrase was silenced by a cushion thrown in conductor's direction. With an avenged grin Murray watched Ben straightened his fringe.

"What was fighting for?"

"You're woodpecker yourself!" – the apartment owner concluded…

"…Here we are!" – Foster slowly entered the studio, holding a tray and breaking another professional flashback. Not bothering himself with cups washing, he brought new ones, as well as the teapot, sugar, sliced orange and even a plate full of cookies found somewhere in the kitchen.

"Gee, I had no idea such a still life can be created here, - Murray confessed, - so, oranges alright?"

"First you taste it. If you're able to finish the music, they are alright".

Grinning, Gold took his cup and put an orange slice there. Ben placed the tray on the floor and sat down near the sofa, busy with his own cup.

"You know, normal people start from tea and then have coffee and beer, - he said stretching out his long legs, - and we have it vice versa".

"Normal people don't work in BBC, - Murray replied, sitting down, - and don't run away from daleks across the stage".

"Don't talk about it, - Ben rolled his eyes, - every time it's the same thing. They'd better make the hosts fight them! But no, all is up to the conductor".

Murray sipped the hot drink slowly.

"And what did you expect? Do it with Smith or Kingston – and the concert would become several parts longer. Or with Gillan. 'Cause you know – daleks, fezzes, - the man took handful of cookies, - sweet-stuff…"

Foster giggled into his cup, nearly spilling hot tea over himself.

"Hey, remember our first Prom? – Nostalgia suddenly captured Murray, trying to get his attention during the whole evening. - That was great…"

"Oh yes, we shook hands like a manager and his new worker. And what did you blurt out at the first orchestra meeting, remember?"

Gold felt his face color wasn't far from the color of his cap.

"No".

"Don't remember? Well-well, - his colleague laughed toying the teaspoon, - "Sit down at the instrument, youngster, the chief is on his way!"

Murray turned away in embarrassment.

"How could I know it's you who are the chief? I thought our conductor would be an adult!"

"You could have googled me. And I am an adult, stop making fun of my age!"

"Then stop remembering that phrase! Russell was joking two months long, as any chance offered!"

Eyeing each other sternly, the musicians couldn't resist smiling again. Cups were half-empty.

"I won't give you the shaker back if you keep on playing a smartass", - Murray warned, taking out a hot orange slice from his drink.

"Hah, I'm not scared! Will buy a new one, – Ben replied chewing cookies, - anyway, you ruin kitchen appliances".

"That's not true!"

"That is".

Murray snorted dramatically and poured some more tea into his cup.

"Kid".

"Woodpecker".

"And every time it's the same way, - his inner voice said, - every time you work together you're almost biting each other and then burst out laughing at it". Oh well, everything is true. Remembering that music was to be written, and Foster would fix his cushion-ruined fringe anyway, Gold planned an amicable arrangement.

"Remember when I brought a new baton to you?"

"Aha, - Ben nodded smiling happily, - suppose I looked like Harry Potter that time, all running and showing it to everybody".

"Even now you look like Harry Potter".

"Really? And in orchestra they say I look like Tennant".

"Well, if he was that crazy about ten years ago, - Murray started but then a sharp elbow hit his side, - hey, I'm to be bruised now!"

"No, you aren't, you've got too many muscles for being bruised".

"I'm fed up with your biology, Foster".

"That's anatomy".

"Who cares? – Murray waved off, putting his cup on the tray and leaning back against the sofa seat. - I can't work out my theme and here you are with the science thing!"

"Have an orange slice, maybe then you'll work it out, - moving closer to the synthesizer, the young musician took his cherished baton, - for lemons did inspire you".

The composer said nothing, eyeing the treasure in his friend's hands. Well, as for him that was an ordinary baton, despite the fact that he bought it, despite the fact that it was made of fiberglass. A present… But for Ben who lost the previous, wooden one, this new instrument became a real treasure. Only three people could touch the expensive thing – Murray, its owner and his wife. Gold found the whole situation funny.

"Somewhere in Wild West a lady would take care of her husband's Colt, - he commented his colleague's enthusiasm, - and your lady takes care of a baton".

"Baton is my moral weapon", - Ben replied seriously.

That time Murray didn't pay attention to the phrase, but soon he learnt that his friend's words – with "moral" stressed – were true indeed. As imposing dolt-intellectual as he seemed, Foster was transforming himself while working. When he went to the podium magic was beginning – exquisite, entailing and lightning-like. A story is still told within the walls of Albert-hall, about Ben signaling to the orchestra during their rehearsal… And the orchestra didn't play in time, watching the patron with silent fascination…

"…Hope you're thinking about music?" – His friend was ever-present, both in thoughts and reality. Shaking his head Murray wondered how brain was overwhelmed with nostalgia. Then he looked at another cup of tea offered to him.

"Tell me when I wasn't thinking about it. I see it even in my dreams. A couple of times that was Melanie singing "Doomsday".

Ben smirked trying to keep his face serious.

"What? - Gold asked. - Yes, Melanie was singing. And wearing black, by the way".

"You definitely need to go on vocation, old chap, - conductor laughed smoothing his hair back, - 'cause you're not far from seeing the Eleventh Doc singing how you put the Devil in him".

"It's Moffat who put the Devil in him. I just wrote a couple of tracks for that".

Ben nodded readily, still having fun. With no proper ideas from his muse this evening, Murray suddenly said in a singing voice:

"Just a perfect day… Drink Sangria in the park…"

"Oh nooo! – Foster shuddered theatrically, hiding his face in both palms. - Just not this!"

"Come on! – Now Gold's elbow hit the target. - Let's sing!"

"I don't want to sing. What made you catch a buzz from tea? – Ben sniffed his own cup anxiously. - Or did oranges help you?"

"I'm just in a creative exploration and bizarre mood".

"Oh, I know this diagnosis from somewhere…"

"So will you sing?" – Murray asked beginning the third line.

"No! I won't sing THIS, especially with you!"

Gold grinned mysteriously.

"Then I'll upload your photo to Facebook, the one with a scarf and Baker's hat".

Ben felt speechless for a moment.

"You bald blackmailer, why didn't you delete it? I told you!"

"Well, perhaps I simply forgot about it, - the apartment owner made a helpless gesture speaking maliciously, - so, should I upload?"

The conductor pouted resentfully, sitting back and looking at his co-author. And then they began Murray's favorite song together:

Oh it's such a perfect day,

I'm glad I spent it with you.

Oh such a perfect day,

You just keep me hanging on,

You just keep me hanging on.

From the middle of a chorus Ben relaxed and began to enjoy it, letting his left hand communicate dynamics habitually. Aware that his friend's professional lunacy is mesmerizing, Murray sat more comfortably, nevertheless. Head propped up on elbow, he watched and began the second couplet. Finally the conductor gave up.

"That's not fair, now you behave like your grandma! He's watching me from the ceiling, - he pointed out to the photo of Moffat, - and you from the right!"

"Sorry, got impressed, - Murray smiled having some more cookies, - did your mum take you to chorus classes as a child, Foster? You sing the endings cool".

"That's rubbish, - Ben waved off, removing the seeds from his slice, - she actually tried to enroll me in a ballet school".

Not expecting something so sudden, Gold choked with a cookie.

"Easy, easy, don't take it to your heart, - the young man hit his friend's back skillfully, - I didn't do the ballet thing! Went on a three-day hunger-strike".

"You should have warned me, - Murray whispered drinking up his tea in a moment, - now I know why you're always jerking and running".

"Aha, there was some background".

Coming to his senses, the composer eyed two last cookies anxiously.

"And my parents wanted to enroll me in the acting school. They said I move my eyebrows in a strange way and smile as if I have some secrets".

Ben giggled.

"They took you for Mona Lisa".

"Do I really look like the ugly ancient yellow girl with breasts?!" – Murray exclaimed. Ben waved his arms, laughing at the friend's reaction.

"Come on, da Vinci thought she was beautiful if he portrayed her. Besides, I meant mysteriousness. You both seem like visual puzzles".

The older musician raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"I think it's you who caught a buzz from oranges, mate. And I have to give you back to your wife and report".

"You have to finish you theme, Gold. My piece is finished, so I can joke".

Shaking the dust off, Ben stood up and stumbled over the cables, nearly falling.

"Wow, take your pirouettes easy, kid! – Murray caught his friend in time and put him back on his feet. - If you have a bloody nose jokingly, your wife will bite my head off".

"If you keep on calling me a kid, I'll do it myself, - Ben scolded with a smile, stepping over the cables and straightening his hair, - alright, Duck, has your muse come back?"

Well rested Murray stretched himself, happy that he wasn't a Woodpecker again. Looking at the empty cups on the tray he smiled mysteriously.

"Suppose, I'm ready to work again".

THE END

30.08.13


End file.
